“Oh, what have you been doing now?” her mother asked, regarding her middle son with a fond mixture of exasperation and resignation.
“‘Twas nae ma fault, Ma,” he said defensively.
“This ought to be good,” Pa muttered, folding his arms.
Muir returned a reproachful expression. “I’m pure done in, an’ me a hero.”
“A hero is it?” his father said sceptically.
“Aye. I pulled young Douglas Macmillan out old Mrs Brown’s well. Little eejit’s been told a dozen times not to play there. Ach, ye should have heard him holler. Reckon I’m deaf in one ear.”
“Good heavens!” his mother said in alarm. “Is the child well?”
“Aye, not the sense he was born with, but nowt but some scrapes and bruises, though his grannie tanned his arse, so he won’t sit easy for a day or two.” Muir grinned, looking well pleased with himself. “See, I told ye, ‘twas not ma fault this time.”
“This time,” his father said with a snort, but clapped his son on the shoulder. “Ye did good, laddie. Now go and clean up. Ye smell like a dead ferret.”
Muir gave his armpit a cautious sniff and pulled a face. “Not that pretty, aye. Good tae see ye, yappy dug.”
Georgie rolled her eyes at the insulting childish nickname her brothers had saddled her with, but replied in kind. “I suppose I missed you too, dunderhead.”
He grinned at her and strode off into the house.
Georgie was almost ready for dinner before she had time to speak to her mother in private. Meg was brushing her hair out before she pinned it up, but dipped a curtsey at sight of the countess, secured Georgie’s hair in a simple knot at the back of her head, and left them alone.
“It’s good to have you back, darling,” Mama said, resting her hands on Georgie’s shoulders.
“It’s good to be back,” Georgie said, meeting her mother’s eyes in the looking glass.
“And so….”
Georgie laughed. “I’m astonished you waited this long.”
“Oh, I’m bursting,” Mama admitted. She took Georgie’s hands and pulled her to her feet. The two of them arranged themselves comfortably on the bed, her Mama’s anticipation palpable. “Well?” she demanded.
“Well, what?” Georgie said, all innocence.
“Oh, Georgina! You know very well what,” Mama protested. “Did you complete your dare?”
Georgie bit her lip, blushing, and then nodded. “Aye.”
“Who? Who was it? What’s he like? Will I like him? Will your father like him—no don’t answer that, he won’t like anyone. Tell me everything!”
Georgie laughed. “I will, if you let me get a word in edge-wise!”
Her Mama mimed buttoning her lip.
“I wonder how long you can stay that way,” she said, amused. “Oh, Mama. How I have wanted your advice these past weeks. I do not know if I’ve done the right thing or not.”
Her mother looked like she was about to burst with the effort of not interrupting, but waited for Georgie to continue. Georgie sighed and pulled a pillow into her lap, hugging it tightly. “Do you know anything about the Duke of Rochford, Mama?”
“The Duke of Rochford! The scarred duke?” her mother exclaimed, all the colour leaching from her face. “Oh, Georgie, it wasn’t him, surely. They say he’s a big, ugly horror of a man who can’t keep servants because he terrifies them and disregards every invitation from polite society. Do you mean that Duke of Rochford?”
Georgie scowled. “I don’t think there can be more than one, but he’s not ugly, Mama, and Pa disregards every invitation from polite society too.”
Her mother frowned. “Not every invitation,” she countered. “And his refusals are always very polite, but yes. I take your point. And I should know better than to listen to gossip. I’m sorry, Georgie, I apologise.”
“Thank you.”
“But tell me about him. Do you mean to say this is the man you kissed under the mistletoe?”
Georgie nodded, clutching the pillow tighter still. “Yes,” she said with a sigh.
“So,” her mother said cautiously. “I take it he’s misunderstood, that he’s not so bad tempered and unreasonable as he’s made out to be.”
Her mother’s eyes grew wide as Georgie wrinkled her nose. “Well,” she said uncertainly, trying to be fair. “Sort of.”
Unsurprisingly, her mother did not look reassured. “You don’t sound very sure of that, Georgie.”
“I’m not,” she agreed. “But I invited him to come here, and I know he will because he wants to marry me.”
“Marry you? But you’ve just met him,” her mother protested.
“Ma, you proposed to my father within minutes of meeting him and travelled to Scotland with him, unwed and unchaperoned the next day,” Georgie pointed out, because it was true.
Her mother blushed. “That was entirely different, and you know it. I did not have your advantages, and the world was a different place then.”
Georgie laughed and took her mother’s hand. “I’m not saying I’m going to marry him, though I’ve known him longer than you think. He was a guest at Beverwyck, a friend of Jules’.”
She watched her mother take a breath and compose herself, to listen fairly to what Georgie had to say. “Very well. What is he like then?”
“I spent half the time in his company wanting to throttle him,” Georgie admitted ruefully. “And the other half—” She blushed, wishing she’d thought about that sentence before she’d begun it.
“I see,” Mama said, one dark eyebrow going up. She reached out and took Georgie’s hand, clasping it. “I understand, you know. It was very much that way between your father and I at first.”
Georgie nodded. “But how do I know, Mama? How do I know if he’s worth taking a chance on? I want what you and Papa have, and even though you have your battles occasionally, there’s never any doubt that Pa adores you and would do anything for you. I’m not looking for perfection, I know that’s foolish, but I think he’s damaged, and the visible scars are not the ones that bother me.”
Her mother sat forward, her expression intent. “Damaged how? How did he get those scars on his face?”
Georgie lowered her voice. “His father went mad from syphilis. He attacked Rochford, Mama. The scars are deep and have healed badly. He was just a little boy. What must that have done to him, to have been treated so cruelly? The old duke died not long after, and from what he’s said of his mother—well, I don’t think he has the slightest idea of what it means to receive love or care, let alone how to give it.”
“The poor man,” Mama said, pity shining in her eyes.
“Yes,” she nodded, feeling her throat tighten with sorrow. “And my heart bleeds for him too, and I want to make it better, to make him better, but people can’t be fixed like a broken wheel. What if I try, and end up married to a man who is distant, and bad tempered?”
“You’ve invited him here?” Mama said thoughtfully.
Georgie nodded.
“Good. In that case, he must survive your father and brothers. If he wants you, he’ll have to prove himself worthy. For your papa will not let you go if he’s not convinced the man is right for you, love. Neither will I, come to that.”
“Yes,” Georgie said, with a sigh, relieved beyond measure that she would have some help in deciding if this man was the one.
“When did you invite him to come, then? It might be best to wait until the spring when—”
Mama paused as the door flew open and her father strode in. He did not look happy.
“Georgie,” he said, his expression fierce. “Why in the name of God is the Duke of Rochford on my doorstep asking to see you?”
Georgie hurried down the corridor, her heart thudding too fast for comfort, very aware of her mother trying to delay her father from following too quickly, their voices receding as she almost ran down the stairs.
There he was. Her breath caught at the sight of him, and she could not deny a little thrill of pleasure
at the realisation he must have come directly here.
“Duke,” she said, as he turned and saw her. His expression, which was tense and rigid, no doubt a result of meeting her father for the first time, eased at the sight of her.
“Lady Georgina,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her. “You are well, I hope. Your journey was not too fatiguing.”
Georgie laughed. “No more than yours, I’ll warrant. Considering I arrived only five hours before you did.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, his expression grave and holding his hands out in a peaceable gesture. “I took you at your word, it’s true, but I’m not staying and—and I do not mean to repeat any hasty words, so there is no need to be uneasy, I promise. I only wished to inform you of my plans, and to make myself known to your parents. Then I shall continue my journey to Wick. By some stroke of luck I have a small property there I have neglected for too long. I mean to attend to its upkeep, which will oblige me to remain for some time, however.”
“How fortuitous,” Georgie said, quirking an eyebrow at him.
Rochford cleared his throat. “I hoped perhaps we might see each other on occasion, if your parents permit it.”
“I’m sure they will,” Georgie said, wishing that hadn’t sounded so breathless, and wondering at the pleasure she found at seeing him here, in her home, when she had been so very nervous about him coming at all.
“Nonsense,” Mama said, crossing the distance between them and giving an elegant curtsy. “Your grace, we are honoured by your presence at Wildsyde. There is no need for you to travel such a distance and in such unpleasant weather tonight. You must stay with us. We would be glad to have you.”
“Would we?” Pa demanded, folding his arms and giving the duke a suspicious glare. “Why would that be? What’s your business here?”
“Pa,” Georgie muttered, giving him a look that pleaded understanding, but her father was hopeless at charades and even if he had correctly interpreted her expression, he ignored it.
“Well?” her father pressed.
Rochford glanced up the stairs to where three large figures had become visible on the landing. The heavy tread of their feet heading downwards announced the approach of her older brothers. Georgie gave an inward sigh and shot a panicked glance at her mother. Mama just smiled and shook her head.
“What’s the craic, Pa?” asked Hamilton, the youngest of the brothers, as he came to stand beside their father, flanked by Muir and her eldest brother Lyall, Viscount Buchanan.
“I don’t rightly know,” Pa said, frowning at Rochford. “You’ll take a drink with me, Rochford? Perhaps we can clear this up.”
“There’s no secret,” Rochford said, meeting her father’s eye. “Morven, I should like to court your daughter.”
Her father stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “I did nae know you’d met my daughter.”
“Who is he?” Hamilton demanded of Lyall, in a far too audible whisper.
“It’s the Duke of Rochford, ye stoter. Do ye ken anyone else with a face like that?” Muir returned before the eldest could reply.
Lyall smacked the back of his head and gave Muir a warning look to hold his tongue.
“Is Georgie to be a duchess?” Hamilton asked, not taking the hint.
“Not today,” her father said darkly, narrowing his eyes. “Rochford, come to my study.”
Rochford nodded, apparently undaunted, and followed her father across the hall. Georgie sent an irritated glare at her brothers and hurried after him.
“Rochford,” she whispered, making him turn his head, though he did not pause. “Don’t mention the ribbons!”
Rochford’s face creased in confusion, and she suspected he believed he’d misheard her. Ah well, it was too late now. The door of her father’s study closed behind him. Georgie turned back to see her mother watching her with sympathy.
“He looks like the kind of man who can hold his own,” she said reassuringly, before turning her attention to her sons. “Where are your manners?” she demanded of Muir and Hamilton.
Hamilton looked indignant, folding his arms and scowling. “What? I only asked who he was,” he protested.
“Numpty. A giant with a ragged scar splitting his cheek nigh in two. Who the bloody hell else could it ha’ been?” Muir demanded. “You’ve heard the talk of him. We all have.”
“Language!” Mama said, exasperated now. “Lyall, keep them out of the way until we know what’s happening, please.”
Lyall simply nodded and herded his brothers down the hallway. He never flapped his gums if he didn’t need to.
“Mama!” Georgie pleaded. “Won’t you mediate, please? I might not be certain I wish to marry him, but I’d like the chance to decide for myself before he’s frightened away.”
Mama patted her arm and smiled. “He does not strike me as a man who frightens easily, darling, but yes. I will see what I can do.”
Georgie sighed and had to be content with that, so followed her brothers down the hall.
Rochford looked about the large and comfortably furnished study. It was a very masculine room, with dark wood panelling and the walls painted a rich deep green. There were bookshelves crammed with titles that looked both loved and well read, rather than merely bought for decoration, and several landscapes, both of the castle itself and the surrounding landscape. From what Rochford had seen of it so far, it appeared as hard and uncompromising as the man before him, but that was fine. He was ready to fight for what he wanted. His gaze drifted to a large stag’s head with a fine rack of antlers, and then he blinked as he saw… pink satin ribbons. Someone had adorned the antlers with pink ribbons. Tied in pretty bows.
“Whisky?” Morven demanded.
“Yes,” Rochford replied, still staring at the ribbons.
“Well. What do you mean by turning up here without a by-your-leave?” Morven demanded, handing him a generous measure in a crystal glass.
Rochford dragged his gaze from the antlers with difficulty. “I’m a duke. I do not require a by-your-leave,” he replied dryly. He took a sip of whisky, appreciating the smooth, slow burn as it travelled to his stomach. After a cold and uncomfortable carriage ride, it was welcome indeed.
“Ye do if ye turn up at a man’s house intending to steal his daughter away,” Morven replied, his eyes glinting.
They were the same shade as Georgie’s, Rochford realised. Was this where she’d inherited her fierce nature as well? Her mother had not exactly appeared a shrinking violet either, though her eyes had been kind despite the steel he’d seen there.
“I don’t think I mentioned running away with her, though as we’re in Scotland, it would be an easy enough thing to wed her with no worries about licences and such. Impulsive people, you Scots.”
“Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” Morven muttered irritably. “I’ll nae have my Georgie repent her choice of husband.”
“Neither would I,” Rochford said, turning the whisky in his hands. “I said I mean to court her. I meant it. I’ve a place at Wick. It’s not exactly on your doorstep.”
“An hour and half, if the weather’s fine,” Morven agreed.
“I’ll visit twice a week, at your convenience, if Georgie wishes me to.”
“Georgie, is it?” Morven demanded, eyes narrowing. “And just how well d’ye know my lass, then?”
“They’ve been together at Beverwyck these past weeks,” the countess cut in.
Both men turned, not having heard the door open.
“His grace is friends with Blackwood, my lord. A fact which must recommend him to us, surely. The Bedwins invited the duke to spend Christmas with them and he and Georgina have spent a good deal of time together. Chaperoned, I’m sure,” she added hastily.
“Of course,” Rochford agreed, not averse to lying through his teeth to get what he wanted.
Morven continued to eye him with suspicion.
“You must stay with us this evening, your grace, and for Hogmanay too,” his wife said, ignoring the look of out
rage from her husband. “We would be glad of the opportunity to get to know you better and the roads between here and Wick are not to be attempted in the dark, unless you know them well.”
“You are most gracious, Lady Morven. I should be glad to accept, but only for tonight. I do not wish to intrude on family celebrations,” Rochford replied politely, knowing well that the earl wanted to throw him out on his arse. Not that he blamed him. If he’d been Georgie’s father and a man like him appeared, he’d barricade the doors. Of course, if he ever persuaded Georgie to marry him, he might have a daughter like her. His heart skipped, the image flickering to life in his mind’s eye so enchanting he felt a little winded.
“—if that suits you?” The countess’ voice pierced his daydream, bringing him back to the here and now.
“Certainly,” he agreed, not having a clue what would suit him, having missed the conversation, but he felt certain such a gracious hostess would propose nothing that didn’t suit him.
His eyes drifted back to the stag’s head and those peculiar pink ribbons. The countess saw him staring, and her lips twitched. “Come, your grace. You must wish to freshen up before dinner. I shall see you to your room.”
And with that, she bore him off and out of the study.
Chapter 20
Monsieur,
I never managed a moment alone with you after Christmas day, so I could not tell you how very much I loved your gift, or should I say ‘gifts’? I cannot imagine how you contrived such a thing, but I am more grateful than you can imagine. They are simply stunning, and I swear I shall do them justice. You have just made my resolution to be braver a good deal easier, my dear friend.
I hope I shall see you at Lady Cavendish’s New Year’s Ball, for then you may see for yourself.
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.
30th December 1840, Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.
Georgie felt very much as if she were sat upon thorns as dinner proceeded with Rochford in position of honoured guest at her mother’s elbow. Her brothers had obviously been told to hold their tongues as they were noticeably silent, which did not help the stilted atmosphere one little bit. The devils were doing it on purpose, of course, she fumed. She turned to her mother as the staff brought in the second course, but Mama only bit her lip and stared at her plate, looking very much as if she was trying hard not to laugh.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 20
